


The Last of Us

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, F/M, The Last of Us AU, Zombie AU, it's really not so bad., tagged just in case!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years ago, the Infection began--descending the world into post-apocolyptic mayhem. Complete with zombies. </p><p>Jemma Simmons is holed up in her little shack that she calls The Cottage when a curly-haired Scot stumbles in looking for supplies. They fight to survive, but more than that, they fight to live, at any cost. </p><p>Until they learn that Jemma might hold the cure to the Infection--but she'll have to die for it. </p><p>When it's a choice between Jemma Simmons and the human race, Fitz has a difficult choice to make; but it's one he knows the answer to. </p><p>A Zombie!AU based on the video game The Last of Us. A new years gift for my lovely amazingjemma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amazingjemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingjemma/gifts).



> Happy New Year, Ole! You've made my 2015 so much better, and I can't wait to see the things we create together in 2016. You are a beautiful soul and a wonderful friend and I am so lucky to have met you. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this :) 
> 
> For everyone else--this is based on a video game that I haven't played, so if you have played the Last of Us and you absolutely hate this, just know that I've never played it but used my boyfriend's superior knowledge (and Wikipedia) as my guide.

She turns the corner, heart in her throat, and holds the gun out in front of her.

 

“STOP!” she shouts. The man turns slowly, hands behind his head as a bag falls from his hands.

 

“I don’t mean you any harm,” he says gruffly. His accent is familiar, a remnant of days long past. She bites her lip and watches him carefully. “I was just looking for supplies. It’s been a long time since I saw anything like this.”

 

Jemma straightens her shoulders a bit proudly. Her ramschackle little house may be small and dirty, but she’s made something of a real home out of it. As much of a home as anyone can build after the undead have taken over the world as you know it.

 

“How do I know you’re not infected?” she demands. He chuckles and raises his eyebrows.

 

“Well, I’m speaking to you, aren’t I?”

 

Her eyes narrow as her thoughts race with her own predicament. “I—I suppose that’s true. What’s your name?”

 

“Fitz.”

 

“Fitz?” she scoffs. “That can’t possibly be your first name.”

 

He shrugs. “Maybe it’s not. Maybe I just prefer to go by Fitz. What’s your name?”

 

“Simmons,” she shoots back. If he’s going to go by his last name, then she will too.

 

“That can’t possibly be your first name.”

 

“Cheeky, for a man who’s got a gun pointed at him,” Jemma observes. He laughs again—it’s the first laugh she’s heard in a very long time and it takes her a moment to place what it is.

 

“Yeah well, it’s not the first time this has happened today.”   


Jemma’s entire body stiffens and her gun lowers. “Who have you met in these parts? I’m—I’m the only one.”

 

He shakes his head. “You’re not. I ran across some woman with really big eyes and a flower dress on.”

 

Jemma scoffs. “A dress? She was probably a figment of your imagination.”

 

“Trust me, she was not,” he says, hands dropping back to his sides. “Look, I’ve been running for days. If you could just let me crash here for one night, it would be much appreciated. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

 

She watches him carefully, eyes roaming over his figure. He’s probably around her age—in his late 20s, she suspects—and his blue eyes are tired but kind. He looks about exhausted as she’s felt since the rest of her family succumbed to infection.

 

“One night,” she says as firmly as she can, but her voice wavers with the weight of her own loneliness and isolation. “That’s—that’ll be okay. It’d be nice to have someone else. We can sleep in shifts.”

 

“You get a lot of infected around here?” Fitz asks as he sits down cautiously on one of the haphazardly repaired couches in her little shack.

 

Jemma shakes her head. “No. Not many. But—you should know something, before you stay here.”

 

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes distractedly searching the room.

 

“I’m infected,” she blurts out. His eyes widen and he stands quickly, backing against the wall in horror.

  
“What the hell?!”

 

“But—but it should have killed me by now,” Jemma struggles to explain. “I don’t understand it. I was a biochemist, before all of this started—I know the progression of the mutation and I should have died after two or three days.”   


“How long?” he rasps, watching her cautiously.

 

“Three weeks,” she breathes. His brow furrows in doubt. “I know that sounds crazy, but I swear to you, I haven’t exhibited a single symptom after the first 24 hours. I became flushed and clammy. I experienced long bouts of vomiting and what was a decidedly high fever—but then I was fine.”

 

“Fine?”

 

“Fine,” she repeats. “I didn’t have _anything else_ happen to me. From my understanding of this—of this virus, or whatever it is—I may be immune.”

 

“That’s only ever been a rumor,” he gasps out, breath quickening with the information she’s giving him. “Immunity is a—it’s a myth.”

 

“It’s not,” Jemma insists. “Because otherwise, I would be one of those brain-eating slaves.”

 

He considers her very carefully. “I was a scientist too. Before all of this.”

 

Jemma swallows hard. “Oh?”

 

“Yeah. Engineering. Bit of a child prodigy, if I’m honest. I guess—I guess immunity could, in theory, be possible. So I’ll stick around because whatever is brewing inside you can’t be worse than what’s out there.”

 

She sighs in relief, collapsing onto the small cot behind her.

 

“Thank you. For not…”

 

Her voice trails off as she considers the possibilities of what he may have done to her. The reality of her situation has been something that weighs heavily on her thoughts, every minute of every day. The strange pull she feels toward the curly-haired man in front of her is inexplicable, but it feels right to trust him.

 

“Just try to keep my hands off me, yeah?” he smirks. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a can of some sort. “I found some canned beans. Not even expired.”

 

Her eyes light up and from the low light of the little firepit she’s built in the middle of the room, she can see his sparkle.

 

“Can I…?”

 

“Well you’re providing me shelter,” he smiles kindly. “Least I can do is provide a meal.”

 

She grins and it nearly splits her chapped lips in two, but she finds she doesn’t care. For the first time in ages, she feels human.

 

***

 

“It’s not common for a woman to make it this long on her own,” Fitz points out as she licks her little metal bowl clean.

 

She immediately glares at him. “How lovely. The patriarchy hasn’t died with most of humankind.”

 

He snorts. “You sound like my mum. I just meant you’re a young woman on your own. There’s some dangerous groups out there, and you’ve got quite the set up here. I’m just surprised you haven’t been overtaken.”

 

“I wasn’t always alone,” she says softly. She hears him shift to get a better look at her face. “I had my family. My mum and dad, and my two sisters—but they all were infected. First my dad. He was the one who really protected us, before. We had to leave him behind. Next was my younger sister, then—then my older sister. My mum was last. It was—it was just her and me.”

 

“Is that how you got infected?” he asks quietly. She nods, tears building in her eyes as they fall down her cheeks.

 

“I didn’t want to do this anymore,” she admits. She feels him scoot closer to her, and she moves away. “Be careful, Fitz.”

 

“You infected yourself,” he says, some kind of awe in his voice. She looks up at him, his face swimming in her vision through her tears.

 

“I tried,” she snorts derisively. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Being so desperate to survive just to try to die.”

 

“You’d lost everything,” he says hoarsely. “I know—I understand, what that’s like.”

 

“You haven’t always been alone,” she says. He nods.

 

“My daughter. When the infection first began, we tried to run. She was—she was shot by a soldier, died in my arms.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Jemma gasps. She goes to reach for his hand and pulls herself back. “That’s horrible.”

 

He clears his throat roughly, scratching behind one ear. “It was. It was years ago, now. She was only three years old.”

 

“Her mother?” Jemma asks after a long moment. Fitz shakes his head.

 

“She was gone before any of this. One night stand gone wrong, but god I loved my girl, y’know?”

 

“I’m sure you did,” Jemma affirms. He rubs at his eyes and she hands him a large jug of water from behind her stack of old crates. His eyes widen hungrily. “Here. You shared your beans, after all.”

 

He gulps down several long pulls and cups a bit in his hands, rinsing his face. “Thank you. I know how hard this is to come by.”

 

“I have my ways,” she says evasively. “If you’d like to get some sleep, I’ll take the first watch.”

 

Fitz nods gratefully. “I haven’t had a chance to sleep in—well, I think it’s been a couple of days.”

 

“Sleep,” Jemma says softly. She jerks her head toward another cot, pushed against the opposite wall. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

 

“Cheers, Simmons.”

 

It’s such a small little phrase but for some reason it feels like a punch to her gut. Her lips quirk in a small smile.

 

“Cheers, Fitz.”

 

She means to wake him, but she also feels bad for him, travelling alone in his grief for his daughter. Sure, the infection began three years ago—but she’s sure that the time can’t have healed his wounds that quickly. He looks peaceful in sleep despite his restlessness.

 

Before she knows it, light begins to appear through the cracks in the creaky slats of her makeshift home. She refers to it as The Cottage—it’s silly but it helps her feel as though she has some semblance of a normal life.

 

Fitz wakes on his own, bleary-eyed with his hair in disarray. He blinks at her in confusion and she can’t help but giggle as she watches him come back into awareness.

 

“It’s morning,” he slurs. “Y’didn’t wake me.”

 

Jemma shakes her head. “No. I thought you might want to rest up as much as possible, what with your upcoming journey and all.”

 

He scrubs at his face and looks around before shifting his gaze to her once again. “You didn’t sleep.”

 

“No,” Jemma laughs. “I didn’t.”

 

“Well, maybe I should—maybe I oughta stay again. It can be your turn to sleep.”

 

Her eyebrows raise nearly to her hairline. Her father would tell her to kick this man out of her little home because, as he’d said a thousand times, no one can be trusted anymore. But he’d shared the story of his daughter and he’d seemed genuinely sad for her and the loss of her family. She’s been alone for weeks and she can hardly stand it.

 

“You’re not afraid of me?”

 

“Can’t say that,” he grins. It’s a bit lopsided and she feels a brief flutter in her gut that, at some point that she has long past, she would perhaps recognize as a crush. “Y’did point a gun at me after all.”

 

“Only because I woke to a man in my home,” Jemma huffs, but she’s smiling and so is he. “I suppose I can allow it.”

 

“Good,” he says. His stomach growls loudly. “So what do you do for food around here?”

 

“Like I said, I was a biochemist,” Jemma smirks. “I happen to make an _excellent_ forager.”

 

Fitz rises from the cot. “Shall I hold down the fort for you, then?”

 

She shoves her feet into her tattered boots and grins over her shoulder as she holsters her gun in her waistband. “If you hear any gunshots, come help me bury the bodies, will you?”

 

They share a grin and she ducks out into the forest surrounding The Cottage. Despite her lack of sleep and her serious exhaustion, she has a renewed spring in her step as a result of her new companionship. She manages to find a rather large bushel of non-poisonous berries that she’d missed yesterday. With the dried oats she still has, she suspects she can make a oatmeal dish. They might even both feel actually full.

 

She shoves the berries into the bag crossed over her body and returns to The Cottage, finding Fitz stoking the fire into something a bit larger. He smiles expectantly when she returns.

 

“I was all ready to dig graves for you, Simmons.”

 

“Jemma,” she says, holding out the berries toward him. “That’s my first name. You can—you can call me that, if you like.”

 

“Jemma,” he repeats, trying the word out on his tongue. “Leo. Leo is my first name, but I’d still rather you call me Fitz.”

 

“Have you always been called just Fitz?” Jemma teases as she busies herself with digging out a metal pot to boil the oats in.

 

“Yep,” he says. “It’s the only thing I have left. From before.”

 

Her smile doesn’t fade, just dims into something a bit sadder. “Me too.”

 

They eat their breakfast and discuss their respective jobs before this all began. She bristles when she learns that he worked for her rival laboratory, and they briefly bicker about the relative merits of their former employers before she reminds them both that none of it matters anymore.

 

***

 

Fitz stays longer than one extra night. Before she knows it, it’s been weeks and he’s still there, sharing The Cottage with her. They live peacefully side by side, working together to forage for food and protect themselves. There’s only one brief encounter with a band of scavengers.

 

Jemma promptly scares them away with her gun and her snarling words while Fitz stands beside her with a crow bar he grabs out of his pack. He doesn’t say anything and while he pretends that he has something to do with the intimidation of the dangerous group of thieves; deep down, he knows it’s the feral look in Jemma’s eyes.

 

He knows she’s tough, and smart, and unbelievably brave. She’s rational and compassionate and for whatever reason, she’s let him stay.

 

He thinks he might just be alright if they live this way forever, but he doesn’t say it to her and she doesn’t say anything about it to him.

 

At some point during their cohabitation, their cots get pushed together to ward off the cold and they sleep with their heads pillowed in the other’s lap.

 

Fitz should have suspected that their peace couldn’t have lasted forever, because before he knows it, there’s a rustling out front of The Cottage while Jemma sleeps against his thighs. He shakes her awake and grabs her crow bar. Jemma clicks the safety on her gun and stands with amazing clarity for a woman who was just unconscious.

 

Fitz peeks through the slats and in the light of the full moon, he sees the face of a familiar man. An old friend from years before.

 

Jemma moves to confront him and his friends and Fitz pulls her back, lifting his finger to his lips with a sharp shake of his head. Jemma blinks at him in confusion, tilting her head to the side. In the dirt of the floor, he uses his finger to carve one word:

 

_Cannibals._

Her brown eyes blow wide open and she nearly squeaks in fear. Fitz licks his lips and tightens his grip on his makeshift weapon. For the first time since his daughter died, he’s truly afraid to die, now that he’s got something to lose.

 

Jemma’s hands clutch her gun with white knuckles, eyes staring straight at the door with primal focus.

 

When Grant Ward kicks the door in, Fitz knows he doesn’t stand a chance. But still, he tries.

 

***

 

He comes to with sweating skin and aching bones. Jemma coos at him, soothing his pains with gentle, cold hands.

 

“Hey Fitz. You’re doing alright. A few broken ribs and a rather nasty slice down your chest. I cleaned the wound—I still had enough supplies to do the trick,” she tells him, running her hand over his hair. “You’ve been out for nearly two days. They did quite the number on you.”

 

“What did you—how did you?” he croaks.

 

Jemma bites her lip and stares at the ground. “I killed them.”

 

“All of them?”

 

Jemma nods again, a bit erratically, and he weakly brushes her hair from her face. “You saved my life.”

 

“I couldn’t let them hurt you. Couldn’t let them—couldn’t let them do _that_ to you.”

 

She leans forward, tears in her eyes, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

 

“I was so scared to lose you,” she whispers. “I don’t regret what I did.”

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs in return. On an impulse, he pushes himself up on his elbows and even though it sends a shooting pain through his side, he perserveres long enough to kiss her, tentatively and softly, on her dry lips. She immediately presses back against him, hands reaching up to lower him back onto the cot.

 

She presses her gun into his hands, eyes still sparkling with tears but a grin on her face. “I’ve got to go find us some more water and hopefully some more food.”

 

He looks around curiously, finding their large jug nearly empty. The collection of food in one of the crates also looks fairly depleted.

 

“You needed extra hydration,” she explains as he turns to her with questioning eyes. “You lost a lot of blood. And your nutrients needed to stay up.”

 

“But I’ve been out for days,” he says dumbly. He puts her words together with the amount of supplies left. “Jemma, how long has it been since you drank?”

 

She shakes her head, standing on shaking legs. “Don’t worry about me, Fitz.”

 

He sighs heavily. “Someone has to.”

 

She smiles at him and runs a finger down the stubble on his cheek. “I’ll be back in a bit. If I hear gunshots, I’ll come bury the bodies.”

 

He barks out a laugh and watches as she grabs his crow bar off of the ground. It’s still coated in one of the cannibals’ blood and it turns his stomach. He’d done that, to protect her.

 

He would do it again—he may _have_ to do it again.

 

He watches her go and decides that there are worse ways to sell your soul. He’ll give it all up if he can just get another smile from Jemma Simmons.

 

***

 

In the weeks following their encounter with Ward and his band of cannibals, Fitz’s injuries heal quite nicely. Jemma forces him to rest more than he’d like and he does his best to make things easier for her. They scratch the days as a tally on the slats above their joined cots. He stops sleeping in her lap and instead, she curls up beside him. He fights to stay awake for his watch, but he doesn’t dare slip into sleep while Jemma’s life is at risk. They trade kisses and secrets, stories of their lives before and the families that they lost in the after. He feels closer to her than he’s ever felt to anyone in his life, and she whispers to him during a particularly gorgeous sunrise that she feels the same.

 

It’s three weeks after the cannibals that they’re sitting on the floor with an old pack of playing cards. She’s kicking his ass at gin rummy and he’s loving every second of it, laughing at her absurd peacocking.

 

A loud knock on their flimsy door startles them both. Jemma grabs the crow bar and hands Fitz the gun before she kicks the door open and stands as firmly as she can in front of a middle-aged man. He’s flanked by a girl in a flower dress and another man with round glasses and a strangely young face despite his grey hair.

 

“Hi there,” he smiles. “The name’s John Garret. We’re a convoy from the Fireflies.”

 

Jemma swallows and sizes him up. “The Fireflies?”

 

“We’re a scientific organization,” the other man explains. “We’re seeking to find a cure for the infection. One of our members saw you infect yourself when your companion grew ill—and then saw you one week later. Still alive.”

 

Fitz steps in front of her. “What do you want with her?”

 

“Your friend may hold the key to a cure, right inside of her pretty little head,” the girl in the flower dress says wistfully, large eyes gazing at Jemma’s face. “All we ask is that you accompany us to our headquarters, let us run a few tests.”

 

“I’m a scientist,” Jemma bites out. “If anyone is running tests on me, it’ll be me.”

 

Fitz stares at her in shock. “You’re not honestly considering this.”

 

She looks back at him with a furrowed brow. “All I’ve ever wanted is to find a cure for this. If we could figure it out, think of how many lives we could save. Society could rebuild. The human race as we know it could be saved.”

 

He shakes his head rapidly. “We don’t know these people. How can you just trust them?”

 

She smiles at him brightly. “I trusted you, didn’t I? I think that worked out rather nicely.”

 

Fitz narrows his eyes at the trio in front of him. “What’s in it for us, if we come with you?”

 

“Well, you’ll be the saviors of the human race,” John Garret smirks. “But if you need more than that, we’ve got fresh meat, hot meals, and even electricity.”

 

His mouth begins to salivate at the thought of a hot meal, with meat as an element, and he feels his resolve begin to melt. Jemma grabs his hand and squeezes it.

 

“We’ll go together,” she tells him softly. “We’ll look after each other. We can do this.”

 

He gulps and gives in much easier than he ever would have before he’d met her. He’s wrapped so tightly around her little finger, he’s surprised he hasn’t snapped his own spine.

 

“Fine. But if it’s too dangerous, we’re turning right back around and leaving.”

 

She nods in agreement and places a grateful kiss to his cheek. He feels his fate heat up at the display of affection in front of others. John grins and reaches forward to clap him on the back.

 

“Ten minutes to pack your things.”

 

***

 

They arrive at the headquarters of the Fireflies after nearly five straight hours of walking through the wilderness. Fitz and Jemma stand at the bottom of the large tower, blinking in awe at the lights on in the windows.

 

Raina, the girl in the flower dress, giggles at their faces. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

 

They both nod, rather dumbstruck, and let the others lead the way inside.

 

Daniel Whitehall, the man in the glasses, gives them a tour of the facilities. The labs are rather rudimentary and a bit barbaric. When Jemma sees the dirty needles used for blood draw, she grips onto Fitz’s hand with a vice-like grip. He steps closer to her with a raised, questioning eyebrow, and she shakes her head in reassurance.

 

She still wants to stay, so he will too.

 

They are dropped off in a room with a bed—an actual bed with a mattress—and Raina directs them to the bathing room. Jemma is tempted to ask Fitz to join her for her first bath in forever until she remembers just that—it’s her first bath in forever, and she can’t even imagine how disgusting it will be. Fitz takes the hint and gives her some privacy.

 

By the time they’re both cleaned and fed—a delicious meal of some kind of fowl and hot rice—Fitz begins to feel incredibly nervous. There’s no way that the Fireflies don’t have some huge catch to this. They must want something from Jemma that Fitz is sure he’s not going to like.

 

Jemma, on the other hand, seems entirely too optimistic about these people and their ideas.

 

Until Whitehall separates her from Fitz and drags her toward an operating room. She screams for him, fighting against the arms of the doctor, and Fitz shouts back as Garret tightens his grip on the younger man’s shoulders, yanking him backward.

 

“JEMMA! JEMMA, NO!”

 

“FITZ! PLEASE!”

 

Her screams echo down the hall as the door slams behind her and Fitz fights his hardest against the large, gruff man who stands in his way.

 

“What the hell do you want from her?” Fitz growls.

 

“What we all want,” Garret says calmly. “A cure.”

 

“What are you going to do to her?”

 

“You’re a scientist yourself, aren’t you, son?”

 

Fitz doesn’t respond, just stares at him blankly. Garret barks out a laugh and continues.

 

“Alright then. Well, you must know that the infection is of the brain. Little Dr. Simmons was infected and survived—whatever immunity she has is somewhere in that brilliant brain of hers.”

 

“You’re going to remove her brain,” Fitz whispers in horror, his stomach churning so violently that he loses his first hot meal in years all over the floor.

 

“No, no,” John laughs. “That’s insane.”

 

Relief washes over him and Fitz leans against the wall. “Oh, thank God.”

 

“We’re just going to need the part that holds the cure. Unfortunately for Dr. Simmons, that’s also the part that controls the breathing.”

 

A rage he’s never known fills him. He vibrates with it and even though his ribs aren’t fully healed and the cut on his stomach burns with the movement, Fitz lands a hard punch on the other man’s face. He kicks him several times in the face, relishing in the sound of breaking bone.

 

“You’re going to suffer for what you’ve done,” Fitz growls, tears streaming down his cheeks. He yanks the gun from the holster at Garret’s hip and clicks the safety off. He contemplates shooting the huddled man in front of him but he thinks better of it. “I plan on being a very big part of that.”

 

He takes off running in the direction of the operating room, bursting through the doors with a flinch at what he might find.

 

***

 

“Fitz, please, just let them kill me,” Jemma whimpers as he bursts through the door, gun in hand. She’s hooked up to a very old heart monitor, strapped to a metal table. Whitehall stands above her with a running saw in hand, and Fitz sees read.

 

“I can’t do that,” he rasps. “I’m not strong enough to live in a world without you.”

 

“Fitz—“ Jemma whimpers. He can see how afraid she is, how torn she is between wanting to save the world and wanting to live.

 

“I need you to be selfish,” he practically sobs. His shaking hand cocks the gun, aimed directly at Whitehall. The doctor stiffens but doesn’t put down the saw.

 

“The rest of the world could be saved,” she cries. “I’m not worth that.”

 

Fitz grimaces at her words. “If you can’t do it, I will. They’ve got others—others who are willing. But I’m not willing to lose you. Please.”

 

He pulls the trigger with little remorse and watches Whitehall crumble to the floor. Jemma sobs wildly but nods in understanding and he desperately fumbles with the leather straps holding her down and he grabs her hand with his bloodied one as they run for the exit.

 

The Cottage won’t be safe anymore, but the Fireflies have a few old cars and he figures one of them will get them far enough away. It can double as their shelter, until they find a new place far away from here. They breeze through the room they’d been left in, gathering their belongings as swiftly as they can and leaving behind anything they can’t grab in just a few moments.

 

He sprints out of the tower, Jemma at his heels, and selects a large, beat-up SUV. Jemma wordlessly hands him his crowbar and he pries the door open with practiced ease.

 

“Turns out you’re a bit of a criminal,” Jemma finally says. He feels his lips tug into a grin as the door pops open. He pushes Jemma into the passenger seat and crawls in after her. Fitz rips apart the dash board with his tool and examines it quickly, hotwiring the old car with ease. It roars to life and he’s pleased to find it’s got nearly a full tank of gas.

 

“Cheers, Jemma.”

 

She leans tiredly against the window, eyes drooping in exhaustion.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks nervously as he slams on the gas pedal. “You seem ill.”

 

“They injected me with an anaesthetic so I wouldn’t move,” she tells him quietly. “I know what it is. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

 

He nods, hand reaching out to rest on her thigh. She covers it with her own and sighs.

 

“Did they really have others, Fitz? Others who were willing to die for the cure?”

 

Fitz contemplates telling her the truth, but he doesn’t want her to carry the weight of it on her shoulders. He doesn’t want to risk waking up in the dead of night to find her gone—gone to save the world.

 

So instead he nods and he decides to lie to her, just this once. He vows to himself that he’ll tell her the truth for the rest of their lives, however short they might be.

 

“Of course there were,” he tells her. “Others without family or partners or—“

 

His voice breaks off and Jemma raises an amused brow.

 

“Or what?”

 

“Or—or me. People who don’t have me to look after. I’d be lost without you.”

 

She squeezes his hand and gazes at him, a combination of adoration and something else in her eyes. “I’d be lost without you too.”

 

“Then I guess we’ve got to stick together,” he shrugs shyly.

 

“I suppose we do, Fitz,” Jemma smiles. He lifts her knuckles to his lips and kisses them softly even as the SUV jerks underneath him with the force of the rough terrain.

 

They’ll survive this, together.

 

Even if they’re the last ones.


End file.
